


Ameotoko

by tsukinari



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akira trying to befriend Yusuke, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coffee, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Rain, also maybe trying to flirt with him a little, set just before Yusuke's awakening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29763918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinari/pseuds/tsukinari
Summary: Akira is returning from school when his eye catches a familiar figure standing alone in the rain.Despite getting off on the wrong foot with Yusuke before, he's determined to make this time count.
Relationships: Amamiya Ren/Kitagawa Yusuke, Kitagawa Yusuke/Kurusu Akira, Kitagawa Yusuke/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 9
Kudos: 69





	Ameotoko

It’s late in the afternoon when he heads home for the day. The streets are a sea of umbrellas obscuring sullen faces, the usual deafening Tokyo bustle softened slightly under a blanket of persistent rain. The stirrings of neon lights reflect their words on puddles formed on soaked concrete, preparing to welcome the evenings first whispers of nightlife.  
  
His eye briefly catches a small florist shop, plain and understated, nestled between stores. The canvas sign on the front is a little worn, the colour matching the ivy that trails down the doorway, a simple kanji logo written in white. Potted plants line rustic wooden display shelves, glossy leaves reaching up to feel the touch of rain. Hanging baskets trail plants down, and buds of flowers bloom in yellows and oranges. There’s a large storefront display of pastel tinted hydrangeas, petals of lilac and cool blue glittering in the sudden downpour, clusters adorned with jewel-like droplets.  
  
There’s a tall boy standing just beside them, posture rigid, thumbing some of the delicate petals absently. He hasn’t seemed to notice the rain that had soaked into his school clothes, the white shirt he wears damp enough to be translucent, showing through to the pale ivory tint of his angular shoulders. The material contrasts sharply with the deep royal blue of his long hair, darkened so much so by the weather that the ends of it pour over his collar like ink. He wears a melancholy expression, so clouded and heavy it rivals the Tokyo rain itself.  
  
Akira crosses the street with Morgana’s familiar weight pulling on his shoulder, his companion fast asleep folded in amongst the dry haven of his gym outfit. He sighs, realising that he will, once again, need to visit the laundromat to remove the short black fur that always clings persistently to the polyester fabric.  
  
He’s unsure what spurs him on, but he’s almost beside the boy by the time he realises they’ve met before.  
  
“Caught in the rain?” he asks, a little after the taller of the two fails to acknowledge his sudden approach.  
  
Yusuke Kitagawa. What a strange twist of fate for the two of them to cross paths like this.  
  
“Ah… Yes. It seems I should’ve paid more attention to today’s forecast.” He doesn’t look at him as he says it, a distracted lilt to his almost melodic voice as he retracts his slender fingers from the blooms. There are plasters covering the top joints of the first two fingers and thumb, padding the area where his brush would meet skin. His fingertips are dark pink, and Akira wonders how long he’s been standing there, stroking the silken petals. Perhaps it’s this concern that prompts him to extend his own umbrella up and out, sheltering them both under it as they briefly observed the shop’s blooms together.  
  
Akira pauses, looking up slightly to meet round eyes widened in recognition. He absently notes they’re almost the same shade of grey as his own, if just a touch bluer, like two glass marbles each filled with a tiny piece of the cloudy sky above them. His lower lids are marred with the rose taupe of sleepless nights.  
  
“Hm? You’re-” He seems quite taken aback, expression faltering between surprise and suspicion, requiring just a moment to compose himself. “Kurusu, wasn’t it?” His tone is cautious, just hinging on polite. He seems much more subdued now, a far cry from the boy who raised his voice with so much emotion before, yet somehow it doesn’t put Akira at ease.  
  
He’s surprised his minimal impression, in the context of Ann’s modelling potential and Ryuji’s short-tempered yet well-meaning outbursts, was even impactful enough for the artist to form the connection.  
  
“Just Akira is fine.” He shakes his head, the untamed waves of his black hair brushing over the frames of his glasses and obscuring his line of sight.  
  
Kitagawa hums thoughtfully at this, pausing to reconsider him. He’s wary of him, of course, but it seems that he wasn’t prepared for Akira’s lack of confrontation.  
  
“Do you like the rain, Akira?” He questions eventually, deceptively simple in request. There’s a seriousness to his tone, and an undercurrent of urgency.  
  
Akira wonders if this is even about the rain at all.  
  
“I do.” He answers simply, almost sheepishly. A quiet truth. “There’s something about it I find myself drawn to.”  
  
Kitagawa conceals his surprise poorly, the thin line of his mouth parting with the slight widening of his eyelids. The eyelashes that frame them are almost impossibly long, just a touch darker than his hair, wet and clustered together from the raindrops that had kissed his face moments before.  
His expression twists into the faintest of smiles, before it’s gone between blinks, leaving Akira to question if it was even there at all.  
  
“I see. A rather unpopular opinion.” Is all he responds, but his tone makes Akira feel as though he’s passed a test he didn’t remember taking. They stand in silence for a few moments more, one that quickly ached to be filled, and he feels his next words pouring from him before he can stop himself.  
  
“Do you like coffee?”  
  
The artist regards him with curiosity once again before he closes his eyes, tilts his head back just slightly, as though he’s savouring a cup he doesn’t yet have. Akira watches intently as a drop of moisture is disturbed by the movement, trailing down his slender neck towards the dip of his throat, pooling.  
  
“I admire its complexity.” His voice rumbles, and despite the cold, its depth is warm and smooth. “Although, I’m ashamed to admit, it’s not something I know much about.”  
  
It’s, of course, hardly surprising he would have a notion for it. What’s any artist without the accompanying romantic notion of spacious high-rise studio apartments and late nights spent over accidental paint-dipped mugs of long-cold coffee?  
  
He tries not to compare it to his knowledge of how Kitagawa actually lives, chained by hands and neck to his Master like a dog.  
  
And oh, what a loyal, obedient dog the poor thing is, refusing to bare his fangs and snap back, even as his chain grows ever tighter.  
  
He is Ichiryusai Madarame’s last masterpiece, unseen and forgotten behind a curtain of rotting wood and sheet metal. Spending his days locked in an empty gallery where only one exhibition remains.  
  
For his part, Akira could hardly be blamed for trying to indulge in the arts every now and then.  
  
“You know, I happen to know a place that does great coffee…” he trails off, testing the reaction it gets him. For the first time since meeting him, Kitagawa suddenly looks nervous. His side-glances betrayed an inner conflict, his face playing out his thought process like projected film.  
  
He thinks if Yusuke were a book, it’s one he’d very much enjoy reading. A beautiful cover wrapped around a delicate spine, untold secrets in deep blue ink held within.  
  
“Oh, I- I shouldn’t…” he starts, but it’s not a no.  
  
Akira smiles, warm against the cold day, charm weaponised to disarm.  
  
“It’s not too far. Come on, my treat.” Akira continues, undeterred, hand brushing against the dampness of the other boy’s shirt arm as he gently begins to guide him towards the direction of the train station. Yusuke doesn’t offer the slightest amount of resistance, simply allows himself to be manoeuvred as he ponders Akira silently. Perhaps it’s just the temperature, but there’s a light bloom of peach that spreads like watercolour over his cheeks.

Sharing the umbrella, he sticks close and doesn’t let go of his arm until they arrive for the train, fearful he’ll slip away like the water trailing down the roads.

* * *

Yusuke takes in the atmosphere of Yongen-Jaya with a quiet enthusiasm. Akira adjusts his pace to match, the usual monotonous walk home becoming more leisurely, even as the rain continued to beat against the umbrella. The clustered buildings close in above them as if to attempt to shelter them from the rain, perhaps even the passage of time itself.  
  
There are a few times he takes his fingers and frames a scene, the mother and child who stand in the alleyway playing with their dog, the cramp of the shortcut to the bathhouse and its quietly humming vending machine, the old clocks on the wall of the second-hand shop and its pleasantly smiling owner.  
  
Akira says nothing in return, simply smiles and tries to envision what it is the taller boy feels compelled to capture in each composition. His final snapshot is their arrival at the door of LeBlanc itself, as he’s turning the key, he looks around to find himself included amongst the plants, dark mahogany and cobblestone. He twirls a loose stand of his fringe around his finger, almost self-conscious, and tries to imagine how Yusuke would paint him were he to choose the steep angular planes of his own body over the soft curves of Ann’s.  
  
Would he select oils and compose him of layers upon layers? Or perhaps acrylic, quick and versatile? Or would he be better suited for watercolour, a translucent ghost upon the page unable to be fully realised?  
  
The artists hands return to his sides, and the moment is gone with the sound of the café bell.  
  
“What a quaint place.” Yusuke says as they enter, just a stride behind, taking in the sight of the café Akira now calls home. There’s no one here, but the scent of coffee lingers still, spices mingling to create a scent that was uniquely homely. He’s not been here too long yet, but already he feels a pang of regret for one day having to leave.  
  
“Don’t let Boss catch you saying that.” He chuckles as he flicks the switch for the rest of the lights, gently placing his bag on the counter of the nearby booth as he hears the door shut behind him. He unzips it for fear he may have suffocated his teammate during the cramp of the evening rush hour home, reaching in to run a hand over his soft black fur just to be sure. He’s rewarded with an unconscious purr as Morgana stretches out further within the bag, making no attempt to wake up.  
  
He tries not to think of how his own blazer was now damp, transferred from a rush hour train journey of being pressed into the shirt of the boy he had dragged home with him.  
  
He removes it, leaving him in his white Shujin polo, and instead busies himself with finding the spare apron Sojiro has given him. He finds a note that confirms his guardian has indeed closed up early for the day and included his permission to use the beans that had been left out for his return. It’s signed understatedly with a simple -S.  
  
He’s promised the artist great coffee, so now it seems it’s up to him to deliver.  
  
He’s halfway through rolling up his sleeves when he notices his guest still hasn’t taken a seat and has instead taken to observing his discarded bag intently as though it held some terrible eldritch secret hidden within.  
  
“…Akira.” He says, and for a moment he thinks Yusuke is going to demand to be taken back to the city centre.  
  
“Your bag appears to have grown a tail.” Is what he says instead, eyeing it wearily.  
  
Morgana, ever the showman, chooses this moment to sleepily poke his head out of the bag, yawning so wide that the dim café light glinted off every little pointy tooth in his mouth.  
  
A Lovecraftian horror indeed.  
  
Yusuke’s delighted “ _oh!”_ wasn’t at all lost on him. “ _A cat?”_ he questioned under his breath, so low it was almost a whisper.  
  
“I didn’t tell you I was a cat chauffeur?” he scoffed playfully, although he knows the artist’s question wasn’t even intended to be heard, let alone answered. “His name’s Morgana.”He added on, helpfully. He continued with the coffee, finding the grinding motions soothing. He liked to think he was improving under Sojiro’s stern but ultimately fair teaching.  
  
“He’s been in the bag this whole time?” Yusuke seems shocked as he nods, which is hardly too surprising of a reaction, given he’s probably the only student in Tokyo who has a haughty, talking not-cat that demands to ride in his school bag to attend his lessons.  
  
“Huh? Wait, _Kitagawa_? What’s he doing her-? Hey hey wait! Just _who_ do you think you’re- m- _mrrrrow~_ ” He can only laugh in response as Morgana’s protests drifted into contented purring once more, Yusuke deftly approaching and mastering the behind-the-ear scritch in record time.  
  
“A rather vocal little fellow, isn’t he?” Although he now had his back turned, he could hear the smile in the other boy’s voice.  
  
“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Akira sighs.  
  
He was once again reminded that Yusuke was still soaked from the rain, something that would no doubt become a detriment to his health despite the pleasant warmth of the café. He makes sure to turn up the thermostat a little more than usual, just in case.  
  
“The left, no- _the left_ , that’s it~” Morgana continued to demand the artist’s attention, fully out of the bag now as he pressed his soft, warm head into the taller boy’s palm.  
  
Akira wonders absently if he has any clothes to give him that wouldn’t end up uncomfortably exposing his midriff. Perhaps his pyjama t-shirt? It was in his pile of clean laundry, and was even long enough to bunch up around his hips when he wore it himself. He figures Yusuke will be fine with Morgana keeping an eye on him for the time being, walking swiftly upstairs to grab the shirt.  
  
Once there, he finds himself wondering just what exactly he had in mind for bringing the artist all the way out here.  
  
All he knows is there was something about the way he had looked in that moment, standing there amongst all the flowers, with a loneliness so palpable it looked like it was devouring him whole. He couldn’t deny being drawn to that, nor the vicarious outrage it sparked in him. He wants to help him, wants Yusuke to let him help him.

Morgana gives him an odd look as he returns downstairs to press the t-shirt and a clean towel into the artists hands. The artist’s hands are cold as their fingers brush together, and he tells himself that’s the real reason why he finds himself pulling away from the touch so quickly.  
Yusuke blinks, processing. If there were cogs in there, he’s sure he would’ve heard them grinding together.  
  
“You’re… giving me your clothes?” he asks, his dramatic shock enough to rival that of any kabuki actor. It’s almost comical, if a little sad.  
  
“Sorry if it’s still a little small, it’s the biggest I have.” He gives a coy smile.  
  
“I…” He looks almost pained now, and for a moment Akira was stricken with the horrible feeling he was going to say something foolish about not deserving it.  
  
“You have my thanks.” Is all he says instead, almost subdued despite his air of gratitude, although it seems his original thought was much closer to what he would’ve liked to say.  
  
He points towards the bathroom door before the stairs and Yusuke walks towards it, Akira wondering if he even realises that he’s been vacantly running his thumbs over the soft cotton since it was placed in his hands.

Thankfully, when he eventually re-emerges, the fit seemed just fine. The loose opening did expose a fair bit of where his shoulders meet his neck and, being as slim as he was, his collar bones were fairly prominent too. Still, he struck a soft and almost intimate image, sleeves bunched to the crook of his arm as he gently ruffled the remainder of his damp blue hair with the towel. He almost looked like he belonged here, in the attic with Akira, living a comfortable life surrounded with art and coffee. He’s always had an extraordinary amount of empathy, but the harsh suddenness of how deeply he cared for Yusuke’s situation surprised him. He was like a wounded creature, experiencing suffering that he’s powerless to protect himself from.  
He tried not to think on it much, averting his eyes for fear that Yusuke will discern his thoughts through them.  
  
“Does it fit alright?” he asks instead.  
  
“It’s- perfect, thank you.” Yusuke isn’t meeting his eyes either, something remaining unsaid that he’s unwilling to share.  
  
  
“How do you take your coffee?” Akira asks another question, more out of curiosity than politeness.  
  
“Ah, surprise me.” He gave a hint of a chuckle, and it’s the first time Akira has heard him close to a laugh. Slightly frustrated with his reluctance to reveal any information about himself, he pours out the measurements for a simple cappuccino. Against the disapproving voice of his guardian in his head, he flavours it with just a slight touch of vanilla and dusting of cinnamon, hoping the sweet spices would add a further touch of warmth and comfort. Yusuke has taken a seat on the chair most directly in front of him, observing his hands closely. He resumes petting Morgana, who seems to have made the move with him.  
  
“You’re a real softy, you know that?” Morgana speaks to Akira, but he looks at Yusuke, who is smiling adoringly at the small cat. It’s not the usual brand of smugness that permeates his tone this time. Rather, it’s one of fondness. He feels his cheeks begin to heat up under the tenderness that had settled over the three of them, which returns the smugness to Morgana’s teasing laugh.  
  
“Ah… What a lovely aroma.” Yusuke sighs, content and relieved. “You know, when you said you knew a place, I wasn’t expecting it to be _your_ place. You… actually live here?”  
  
Akira at least has the grace to look sheepish as he considers the reality that he had essentially _gently_ kidnapped a boy he and his friends had, for all good intents and purposes, terrorised in his home just a few days prior. He almost marvels at Yusuke’s lenient, gentle nature, woefully regretting that they didn’t try simply befriending him first, if dragging him to a backstreet coffee shop was all it took.  
  
“It’s uh… a long story.” He says, frustratingly cryptic, but if Yusuke minds his avoidance, he never shows it. “I’m just happy to have a taste tester.” He says bashfully as he pushes the coffee to him. Upon seeing the crema his barista-in-training had decorated with frothy, white milk flowers, he nods in approval.  
  
“A fine composition.” He says, his tone light and complimentary.  
  
Akira scratches the back of his head, preening a little at the compliment from Yusuke. He hadn’t put nearly as much effort into his own, simply black with two sugars, but it’s comforting all the same.  
  
The artist’s fingers leave Morgana to seek the warmth of the cup. He’s removed the three plasters, no doubt having lost tack from the rain, revealing some rather angry looking purple bruising and circles of broken skin in its place. Akira says nothing, already knowing from his limited time in the atelier that the artist is being pushed to his limits to create a new piece for Madarame to unveil at the end of the exhibition. Their eyes meet, and just for a moment, Akira sees eyes he recognises.  
  
The eyes of someone who had been stripped of all hope, left alone and suffering at the hands of a fate they cannot overturn.  
  
It’s the same eyes he had woken up to each day he had looked in the mirror, just before moving here. Before he had received the power to build himself anew.  
  
The taller boy has already torn his eyes away though, drawn back down to his cup with a slight furrowed brow, in fear of acknowledging the sight.  
  
Morgana grumbles beside him at his attention being taken, and saunters off upstairs, no doubt to revenge-sleep on more of his clean clothes.  
  
Yusuke watches him leave, sight lingering.  
  
“I know that you and your friends mean well, but I…” His voice is so quiet, so sad, that it trembles from his mouth unsure of whether it has permission to leave. “… I _chose_ this. And the consequences of that choice are mine, and mine alone. I simply won’t involve anyone else any further. Please, just… Forget about it.”  
  
Thinking back on it, much later, he would say that it was here, in this moment, that became the point of no return for him. Yusuke, sitting so small and broken and confused, clinging to a simple cup of coffee like it was the first shred of human decency he had received for years.  
  
Joker could practically feel Madarame’s still-beating heart seeping through into the red of his gloved hands.  
  
“It’s not that simple now.” He shakes his head, sombre.  
  
Forget it? How could he possibly forget everything he’d already seen?  
Despite Yusuke’s half-hearted denial of his circumstance, there must surely be even more hiding underneath. He’s doubtful his only bruising has been at the hands of the brush.  
  
“Perhaps.” He agrees, only now picking up the mug, cradled in both hands, injured fingers never touching the heated ceramic. “But even still, you cannot save someone who doesn’t wish to be saved.”  
  
It’s clear now that Madarame has no intentions of letting him go. He suspects, years from now, even when he’s released from this influence, there will still be a poison sown into his bones, still dissolving him from the inside.  
  
He won’t get through to him today, he knows.  
  
But Akira is nothing if not stubborn. There’s a long game to be played here, he has patience in droves, and his winning prize is something he’s very much looking forward to.  
  
“Maybe not, but I’ll be here until you do.”  
  
“…What?” His voice is a whisper, so quiet it’s barely audible.  
  
“I mean it.” He crosses his arms, leans over the counter so his gaze is parallel to the other’s. Yusuke simply gapes at him, bewildered, like some feral kitten unsure on how to take affection. “I’ll be right here, waiting. Whenever you’re ready.”  
  
“Why…” He lowers his head, damp hair falling from its parting to cover his face. “Why are you still fighting for this!” He suddenly cries out, hands slamming against the mahogany counter, wincing as he does. “Why does it matter so much? What good is admitting it? Why do you even care! How-!” His voice cracks, then lowers again, until it’s barely above a whisper, shoulders suddenly drained of tension.  
“…How could I,” he starts, clutching at the end of the shirt he’d been given, “possibly be worth all this?”  
  
It’s gut-wrenching to watch someone so openly hurting. He feels guilty for deliberately opening Yusuke up like this, him, and even all of his friends, continuously prying open his wounds one by one until he was left so horribly raw and exposed.  
  
“I’m just not the type to sit by and watch someone suffer.” He answers on instinct, but thinks it’s perhaps too simple, too impersonal, an explanation. “I won’t- _can’t_ accept this. I know what he’s doing to you, and I… I know what you’re going through. I won’t let you, or anyone else, go through that alone. Not if I can help it.”  
  
He hopes his implication of a topic he’d rather not expand on is repayment enough, a kind of solidarity found within his own relationship with his parents.  
  
“So you’ve also…” it’s no surprise he’s an audible processor, but he doesn’t take the topic any further. It’s unlikely that he wants to either.  
  
“I think we should leave it at that for today, don’t you?” he smiles, and the artist gives him a solemn nod. The atmosphere is so charged, both of them at a loss for how to move on without any residual awkwardness.  
  
“So, tell me, what’s your opinion on the current collection at the Museum of Modern Art?” He asks, for once glad he has at least a passable knowledge of art.  
  
“On the…? Oh, I didn’t expect you to know-” He chuckles, incredulous, the sound slightly manic, yet also endearing. He hopes he hadn’t been the final turn on Yusuke’s screws, pushing him to becoming fully unhinged. “How commendable. It seems I misjudged you.”  
  
He waves it off, waiting for the artist to respond as he sips his coffee. He’s sure whatever he comes up with will be much better than his own response could have been.  
  
“Although it’s quite heavily criticised, I think there’s a great deal of strength to be found in such bold exploration of media. Although some of it I personally find… repugnant, that too, is its own way of beauty. Take the artist-”  
  
It was like watching a rebirth, a bulb in spring blooming after the snow. He realised he had also judged too soon. Yusuke Kitagawa, it seems, would never succumb. His passion was his lifeblood, something unable to be stolen away. An elixir for any poison.  
  
The clock read 10:08 when both boys returned to the present moment to glance at how much time had passed. Their small chats had become much longer, Yusuke blossoming more and more as he got comfortable, into someone who was intense, expressive, knowledgeable, and quick witted.  
The more he talked, the more Akira wanted to hear. The longer he stayed, the less he wanted him to leave.  
  
“It’s getting late, I really should be going...” He murmurs against the quiet ambience of the café. There’s a sombre reluctance to his words, finger tracing an invisible pattern on his empty glass.  
  
Akira was painfully desperate to tell the other boy to stay, although he knows it’s unrealistic. He wants to keep him here as long as he can, wants to avoid facing the reality of the situation drawn out around them. He knows Yusuke would decline, knows logically that it would be disrespectful to invite him without Sojiro’s permission, so he doesn’t. But it does nothing to soothe he ache pushing him towards it.  
  
“I’ll walk you to the station.” Is what he says instead, in spite of what he means.

* * *

The rain is lighter than it was earlier, the clouds seemingly soothed by the cool, crisper air of night-time. Yongen is an old neighbourhood, its aged-and-ageing residents already fast asleep, so the only remaining source of light is the buzzing street lamps. It shines through the transparent umbrella Yusuke holds, warm yellow meeting the cool blue of his slightly ruffled hair. There’s something uncomfortably familiar about walking the dim streets after dark, and he finds his thoughts drifting back to that night. His empathy had truly got the better of him then, the woman he jumped to defend later twisting to become the final fall of the gavel that sealed his sentence.  
  
He wonders if he’s doing the same thing again, making the same mistake of kindness.  
  
“Akira? Is something the matter?” Yusuke calls out to him. He’s half-turned, facing him from about a meter away, an inquisitive look on his face.  
  
He realises he had stopped walking.  
  
He looks at the bruises on Yusuke’s fingers.  
  
“… It’s nothing, sorry.” He shakes his head, walks briskly to catch up and shelter himself under the umbrella again. The taller boy leans into him, just slightly.  
  
He thinks to himself it will just have to be a risk worth taking.

* * *

“Ah, I still have your umbrella.” He makes a move to return it to him, but he doesn’t return the gesture.  
  
“Just keep hold of it for now, you’ll need it more than I will. Besides, that way I get to see you again, right?” he smirks, no doubt looking pleased with himself.  
  
“O-oh. Yes, that would be…” It’s taken him completely off-guard, his breath hitching pleasingly, and Akira wonders how a boy so pretty could fumble over the simplest of teasing.  
  
“I’ll see you around. Yusuke.” His voice is confidently smooth, and he finds he likes the way it sounds on his tongue, feels the weight of the breath that forms his name for the first time.  
  
He’s definitely not imagining the blush this time, it stands out darkly against his skin, like ink on cartridge. It’s captivating.  
  
“Until next time, then.” The artist eventually manages to say, before the doors shut between them, his voice soft, fond, and far away. He sees his lips form another word through the window that he knows but can’t hear, his own name in return. The thought causes a pleasant warmth to bloom from within him, opening like a flower to a summer spell.  
  
Akira smiles, but it quickly falls as the train pulls Yusuke away, back to the shack. Back to Madarame.  
  
He looks up to the sky as the last of the night rain clears, as though the artist has carried the last of the clouds away with him.  
  
The sight of the stars had never left him feeling quite so lonely.

* * *

The atelier is quiet when Yusuke returns. He’s thankful for it, for there will be no arising suspicions of where he’s been or why he’s wearing clothing that wasn’t bought for him. His teacher is most likely out celebrating a successful gallery turn-out with potential buyers. He wonders which of the paintings will be the next to go, watching the paintings leave an empty space behind, just as their artists had in this home.  
  
He thinks of the boy with his deep grey eyes, like the shine of fresh graphite. The way his hands had moved preparing the coffee, deft and confident. How warm they had felt on his arm through the cold wetness of his shirt.  
  
He thinks of the little cat, with its soft purring and even softer fur.  
  
He replaces the plasters over the bruises on his fingers and paints it all with a fervour.  
His day reflected in the cerulean blue of Morgana’s eyes and the light magenta and violet of the hydrangeas he had been whisked away from. The figure he paints from memory, standing in front of a café wearing an apron in sap green, his ivory black hair a soft and ruffled crown atop his head. His smile is guarded, yet genuine.  
  
This one won’t be for Madarame. The euphoric rush of disobedience fills him as he knows this will be a piece of him that he’s unwilling to give away, as he had done with so many others.  
  
He doesn’t wish to be saved.  
  
That’s what he had told him.  
  
Madarame was all he had. After all, he was always such a rotten child. He listened too much, looked too often. Saw strange men visiting late at night, heard the hushed whispers of the older pupils behind closed doors. They looked at him with sadness, resignation, even pity.  
  
For out of all of them, he is the one who will always remain tied to this place. Eventually they would all leave, but Yusuke would remain, wandering the halls alone like a lost spirit.  
  
He was nothing but a burden upon such a great, generous man. That was why he had to work so hard, to repay his Sensei for everything he had sacrificed for him.  
  
If it meant he could be around the creator of the Sayuri, he would endure anything. If his life, his very soul was what was required in forfeit, Yusuke would give it up gladly.  
  
He doesn’t wish to be saved.  
  
That’s what he tells himself.  
  
He looks out the window to the rain, the same droplets that had drawn the other boy to him. For the first time, he thinks of the constant accompaniment of rain as a blessing rather than a curse.  
  
Akira is right, they all were. He’s no fool. He knows what happens in this house. He knows it’s wrong. And he knows there is not a thing he can do to stop it.  
  
His phone buzzes in his pocket, almost indistinguishable from the sound of the pattering against the window.  
  
_‘If you ever find yourself needing another cup, just let me know.  
I’ll be waiting.  
-A’  
  
_Odd, he had thought he was long-since dry from the downpour.  
  
So then why was the screen blurring, lingering tracks of moisture on his face as he ran his fingers over his cheeks?  
  
He lets out a bittersweet, choking laugh that echoes in the empty room, as he wonders how that stubborn, wonderful boy was able to convince Ann to give up his number.  
  
Later, when he stretches out his futon, he faces the new painting and falls fast asleep in the t-shirt Akira has given him, with the smell of coffee, spices, and freshly cut flower stems following him into his dreams.

_‘I’ll be sure to take you up on the offer.  
-Yusuke’_


End file.
